


Art Imitates Life

by rain_sleet_snow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Lord Peter Wimsey - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter on a train gives Harriet the inspiration she’s been looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Imitates Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fandom_stocking last year, for Azarsuerte, who doesn't seem to have an AO3 account.

            Harriet had always liked trains; they came complete with a sense of adventure. But travelling in blacked-out England was not pleasant, and neither was contemplating the telegraph she had received. PAUL HAS FIRST TOOTH, BAD TEMPER. TRUST MEETING WITH AGENT SUCCESSFUL. P. Harriet really disliked the teething stage in children. Trying to help them always seemed so futile, and left her feeling useless.

 

            As a matter of fact, Harriet’s agent, a new man who had replaced a much-loved friend, had been tiresome. He had wanted Harriet to write a new Robert Templeton – preferably several new Robert Templetons – and had offered her a wretched contract she would have had the sense to reject at twenty-three, let alone forty-three. She had turned him down, giving the same reason she had been giving for at least the last three years, and continued to discuss a collection of articles she had been asked to contribute to, and the potential for some non-fiction on Sheridan LeFanu. He had not been terribly interested, which was fine; she had not been terribly interested in him. She tapped her fingers on the seat and made a face at the window. He really would not do – not now, and not for the future. Harriet needed someone much more flexible.

 

            A motley group of soldiers, American GIs, was standing around outside, and Harriet had the misfortune to pull her face in their general direction. One of them, an individual of Japanese extraction, caught sight of her. Then he stared and laughed and turned away, but Harriet still got a profoundly disappointed look from their tall, blond leader. She flushed with mortification and looked deliberately away. No use trying to explain. It would not improve matters.

 

            Harriet noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a tall English girl in uniform with immaculate chestnut hair descend on the Americans and order them into the train. This newcomer’s attention was directed to Harriet by the leader, and she, too, stared a little – but hers was the stare of recognition. Then she said something to the leader, and shooed the Americans onto the train with much the attitude of a harassed housewife herding chickens.

 

            Harriet mentally braced herself for an awkward discussion.

 

            The dreadful encounter did not come until they had been out of London for more than half an hour. Harriet had the compartment to herself, until there was a brisk but somehow shy knock on the door, and she turned her head and saw the tall English girl from before. “Come in,” she said, preparing to receive either her public or an admonition (or possibly both at once).

 

            The English girl opened the door and stepped inside. She had considerable self-assurance, perfect lipstick to go with the perfect hair, and more rank slides than were commonly seen on women officers. “Ma’am, are you Harriet Vane? Lady Peter Wimsey, I mean?”

 

            “If you’re addressing me as an author, the former. If not, the latter.” Harriet smiled. “Do take a seat, Miss…?”

 

            “Lieutenant. Lieutenant Carter.” Lieutenant Carter took a seat. Heavens, but she was _young_ ; Harriet could more easily imagine her as a Finalist at Shrewsbury than a servant of her country in time of war. “I was hoping to address you as the former, Miss Vane. I have always been a very great fan of your writing. _Death ’Twixt Wind and Water_ is my favourite, and I – well, I’ve carried it all over Europe.”

 

            Her slight smile, and the calculated light girlishness of the phrasing, did not prevent Harriet from drawing certain conclusions about where exactly Lieutenant Carter had served. She suspected that the young lady had said a little more than she’d like to, and was covering it up by changing the tone of her words – or perhaps she was obliged to put on the slightly stage-like mannerisms to achieve her objectives. Unfortunately, Harriet was familiar enough with actresses and musicians to know that nothing short of blindness, deafness and a touch of the sun would lead anyone remotely informed to confuse Lieutenant Carter with a member of ENSA.  She made a note to ask Peter about her. Probably he would say nothing; but that, of itself, would be instructive.

 

            “How funny you should say so,” Harriet said. “It’s rather my favourite, too. In an odd way. Do you have it with you? Would you like me to sign it?”

 

            “Please, ma’am.” Lieutenant Carter produced the book, and in return Harriet produced a fountain pen and signed it, after making the appropriate enquiries, to _Lt Margaret Carter – best of luck – Harriet Vane_.

 

            “By the way,” she said as she returned the book, and Lieutenant Carter waved it around a bit to dry the ink, “I think I may accidentally have insulted one of those Americans you were putting on the train. I was pulling a face at the memory of a meeting that didn’t quite go as I wished it to, and I think he felt that it was – aimed in his direction. I assure you it was not.”

 

            “He didn’t say anything to me.”

 

            “I think his officer did, though.” Harriet caught Lieutenant Carter’s eye. “I shouldn’t wish to be the cause of any unpleasantness.”

 

            “Captain Rogers did say something,” Lieutenant Carter allowed. She smiled, and stood. “I should get back to them. They do get into trouble if left to their own devices.”

 

            “Like small children,” Harriet said, smiling.

 

            “Exactly like,” Lieutenant Carter said. “Thank you for the autograph, Miss Vane.”

 

            “Not at all,” Harriet said, and watched as Lieutenant Carter left.

 

            She needed a new heroine, she decided as the train drew in to Pagford and she saw Bunter on the station, someone who would be an antidote to Robert Templeton – a change being as good as a rest. Perhaps not for a whole new book, but she might enjoy turning her hand to some short stories, provided there were no more deaths to add to the increasing toll in real life. Perhaps she could prevent murders, or maybe she could rescue vital state papers. Harriet rather thought she would call her heroine Margaret, though it didn’t roll off the tongue quite as she might wish.

 

            Peggy, perhaps, for short.


End file.
